“Ay, Sir; that was what the blockhead said,” answered Fleming, who was behind his chair. “I’m no minding what you call me. It was a bletterin’ scoondrel yesterday, and it may be a good fellow the morn. I hope I know how to do my duty, whatever happens; if you’ll but eat some dinner,” the old man added, dropping his voice with an inflection which was almost tender.
This little interruption directed Mr. Heriot’s thoughts from Marjory’s letter. He bade Fleming begone for an old rogue, and emptied the dish he offered. Something had softened the heart-broken father in his passion of grief; or else the high-pressure, the immediate violence of his feelings, was wearing out. It was only after some minutes that, still harsh and sharp in his tone to her, though softened to others, he looked down the table to Marjory, and asked quickly,
“Was your letter from Charlie? Does he say when he’s coming? What is it about?”
“It is a letter from Matilda’s sister,” said Marjory, in a voice tremulous with suppressed feeling. “We do not know her, papa—a Miss Bassett. She tells me she was to join them at Calcutta, to come home with them, and something about hoping to make my acquaintance. That is all.”
“That is not much,” said Mr. Heriot; “but to know he is on the way is something. If I but see my boy back—Fleming, there’s that claret with the yellow seal—”
“Is Charlie—?” began Mr. Charles.
He was going to say was Charlie better. To him, as to all the others, it seemed so long since this morning, when the news of Charlie’s illness came, that the arrival of further news did not seem impossible. The same strange feeling of the long duration of these few sorrowful days dulled Mr. Heriot’s mind to the recollection that it was a very short time since Charlie had been called home, and that no reply to that call could have come so soon. He accepted Marjory’s explanation without any more questions, while Mr. Charles stopped, trembling, in his question, appalled by the look which she had given him. Mr. Heriot took no notice; a little gleam of happier feeling seemed to wake in him. He entered into a little dispute with Fleming, as to how much was left of the yellow seal. And when Marjory left the room soon after, he even stopped her, with some return of gentleness, to give her directions about Charlie’s rooms.
“If you are thinking what rooms to give them, May,” he said, hastily, “put them in the west wing. It will be warmest for the bairns.”
It was the first time he had called her by her name since the funeral. Poor Marjory hurried away, choking, afraid to trust herself to speak, assenting only with a movement of her head.
“Oh, papa’s better! don’t you think he’s better? He kissed me, May,” cried little Milly, as they went hand in hand along the passage which led to the drawing-room.